


A Marriage of Inconvenience

by ghostinthelibrary



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fake Marriage, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pining, Pre-Geralt/Yennefer/Jaskier, Pre-OT3, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: “Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Jaskier says before she can ask what the hell he’s playing at. “Will you marry me?”Yennefer is not given to fits of laughter. A polite chuckle, maybe a disdainful snort. But it’s been a long time since she’s found herself seized by that kind of uncontrollable laughter that makes her entire body shake and steals the breath from her lungs. She laughs so hard that people turn to stare.When Yennefer’s mirth finally subsides, she wipes her eyes, takes a leisurely sip of her ale, and says, “No.”When Jaskier asks Yennefer to pretend to marry him in order to go undercover in a Nilfgaardian operative’s court, she decides she can’t let Geralt’s ridiculous bard get himself killed. But in the weeks that follow, the two grow closer and Yennefer begins to develop some inconvenient feelings for her pretend husband.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 71
Kudos: 221
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #03





	A Marriage of Inconvenience

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for this week's Witcher Quick Fic.
> 
> This is set in an alternate universe where Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer actually communicate with each other, so Yennefer knows about the Law of Surprise situation and everyone knows about the djinn wish and is fine with it.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful Emamel.

“Yennefer, I have a proposal for you.”

Yennefer regards the bard on the other side of the table over her mug of ale. She still isn’t sure why she agreed when Jaskier sent a letter asking her to meet him at some no-name tavern in Novigrad. It’s not like they’re friends; all they have in common is that they’re fucking the same man. Jaskier is a brightly colored nuisance and she’s never been sure _what_ Geralt sees in him.

He’s grown a beard since the last time she saw him. It actually makes him look his age— which Yennefer assumes is mid-to-late thirties, though the vain idiot still claims to be in his mid-twenties. The absurd hat he’s wearing negates any air of gravitas the beard might lend him.

“Well,” she says when he’s not forthcoming with what this proposal is. “I don’t have all day, bardling. Tell me what you want, so I can say no and we can all be on our way.”

He smiles wryly. “It’s so nice to see you, Yennefer. It’s been too long.”

“Has it?” Yennefer tries to see the bard as little as possible, which is a challenge when he always seems to be attached to Geralt’s side. His company was only tolerable the first time they met, when he was unconscious. “Take off that ridiculous hat, and we can talk.”

Jaskier’s hands fly to his bright blue hat, which sports a peacock feather, of all things. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know, this is—”

“The latest fashion, I know. You still look absurd. Not going bald already, are you, bardling?”

“How dare— my hair is as thick and plentiful as it was when I was a boy!”

“All over, if I remember correctly.”

Jaskier huffs and whips off his hat. He has quite a bit more forehead than Yennefer imagines he probably had as a boy, but it doesn’t seem sporting to bring it up. She watches as he withdraws a small, ornate box from his pocket and slides it across the table to her. When she opens it, she finds a lovely onyx and pearl ring inside.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Jaskier says before she can ask what the hell he’s playing at. “Will you marry me?”

Yennefer is not given to fits of laughter. A polite chuckle, maybe a disdainful snort. But it’s been a long time since she’s found herself seized by that kind of uncontrollable laughter that makes her entire body shake and steals the breath from her lungs. She laughs so hard that people turn to stare.

When Yennefer’s mirth finally subsides, she wipes her eyes, takes a leisurely sip of her ale, and says, “No.”

Jaskier looks unfazed. “I thought you might say that—”

“A moment of foresight that’s unusual for you, I’m sure.” Yennefer brushes off her skirts and starts to stand. “Well, it was a pleasure catching up. Let’s not do it again for a long time.”

“Geralt’s in danger.”

All the amusement drains from Yennefer. She saw Geralt just last month, right before he started his journey to Kaedwen for the winter. They spent three lovely days together and he seemed _fine,_ healthy and in good spirits. “Explain,” she says stiffly, sinking back into her seat.

Jaskier flags down the barmaid, who brings them two more ales. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the situation in the Southern Kingdoms,” he says once the woman retreats.

“I haven’t been living in a swamp for the last decade, so yes,” Yennefer says dryly. “What does that have to do with Geralt? Witchers don’t get involved in politics.”

Jaskier guffaws. “That’s a nice fantasy. I would have fewer gray hairs were it true.”

Yennefer doesn’t see a single gray hair on his head.

“Now that Nilfgarrd has conquered the entirety of the south, intelligence reports say that the Emhyr var Emreis has his sights set on Cintra, particularly on Princess Cirilla. For some reason, he’s obsessed with the girl.”

Yennefer’s lip curls in distaste. There are several reasons the Emperor of Nilfgaard would be preoccupied with the crown princess of Cintra, none of them good. The child is only ten, for Melitele’s sake.

“Emhyr knows about the Law of Surprise,” Jaskier says grimly. “He knows Geralt is bound to Cirilla. It’s only a matter of time before Nilfgaard sends people after Geralt.”

Yennefer feels cold at the very idea. “How do you know all of this?”

“I have friends in the Redanian Secret Service.”

“But what does that have to do with us getting married?” Yennefer demands.

“I’ve been invited to spend winter at the court of the Duke and Duchess of Edinne in Nazair. They’re close, personal friends of Emhyr var Emreis. When the rest of Nazair was burnt to the ground, Edinne remained largely untouched. Rumor has it that the duke is deeply involved in Emhyr’s business and is spearheading his attempts to infiltrate Cintra and Sodden.”

“Why would they want you?”

“Because I’m a world-renowned bard, Yennefer. And because they can use me against Geralt, if it comes down to that. They think I’m a ready-made hostage.”

“Then don’t go.” Yennefer doesn’t care for the bard, but she remembers the barely contained devastation on Geralt’s face after the djinn attack, the way his hands shook when he laid Jaskier’s prone form on the bed. She doesn’t understand it, but this ridiculous peacock of a man is important to Geralt. And Geralt is important to her. If Jaskier is hurt or killed while Geralt is tucked away at Kaer Morhen for the winter, it will break him.

“If I go to Edinne, the kind of intelligence I could gather would be invaluable to the Northern Kingdoms. If I can figure out what the Emperor is planning for Cintra and Sodden, we could stop the war in its tracks. We could keep Geralt safe.”

“You have _friends_ who work for the Redanian Secret Service, bardling?”

Jaskier’s cheeks flush. “I know if I go in there alone, I’m not walking out alive. However, if I were recently wed, I would of course bring my new bride along.”

“Yes, I’m sure no one will look twice if you show up with a sorceress on your arm.”

“You won’t come as a sorceress. I imagine you can go incognito for a winter?”

“Can you?” Yennefer snipes.

“Please, Yennefer. We wouldn’t have to legally wed. We just need to put on a convincing show of it.” His expression is deadly serious. Something in his eyes seems much older than his years. “Nilfgaard will take Geralt apart if they get their hands on him. I won’t let that happen.”

Yennefer drains the rest of her ale. “You’re going to do it whether or not I accompany you, aren’t you?”

Jaskier swallows. “I’ll do what I must to keep Geralt safe. I would prefer to do it with a powerful sorceress at my back.”

Oh, this poor, lovesick fool. Yennefer would laugh, if she weren’t just as much of a fool. With a sigh, she takes the ring from his hand and slips in on her finger. It fits perfectly. “When do we leave?”

***

The trip to Nazair is long and dusty. By the end of it, Yennefer is ready for widowhood. When she tells Jaskier as much, he laughs and says, “Well, it’s not a real marriage without _some_ homicidal urges. Just ask my parents.”

Yennefer doesn’t know when the bard stopped being afraid of her. Once this is over, she plans to rectify that.

When they arrive at the castle in Edinne, Yennefer is ready for a bath, a bed, and an evening without having to listen to the bard chatter. Instead, they’re ushered directly into the study to be introduced to Jaskier’s new employers.

The Duke of Edinne, Almisarr aep Clyll is a barrel-chested man with a bushy beard, a booming laugh, and a too-jovial smile. His wife, Oma, is willowy and fair-haired, with eyes that watch Jaskier hungrily as he does the requisite bowing and scraping. Something in her gaze makes Yennefer want to place herself between the duchess and Jaskier. 

“We are such fans of your work, Master Jaskier,” the duke says cheerfully. “As soon as our court bard retired, yours was the first name that came up as a replacement. And how delightful that you brought your charming wife.”

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier reaches back to take Yennefer’s hand. “My grace, this is my darling wife, Annika.”

“A pleasure.” Yennefer bobs a curtsy. She remembers how to play this game, even decades after she left Aedirn’s court. She keeps an eye on Oma aep Clyll, who is still watching Jaskier. It’s not lust in the duchess’ gaze, Yennefer realizes. Oma is looking at him like he’s something she wants to dissect.

“We hope you enjoy your winter here.” The duke claps his hands together. “Who knows, perhaps we can tempt you to stay for longer?”

***

“Absolutely not.” Yennefer shakes her head. The bedchamber they’ve been given is lovely, with a spacious bed, a comfortable chaise, and a small writing desk. The only issue is that there’s only one bed. “We need a second bedroom. I will not share a bed with you.”

Jaskier sighs. “Yennefer, in the south, married couples sleep in the same bedchamber.”

“Well, we’re from the north.”

“It’s a large enough bed for two.”

“Like hell it is.” Yennefer points to the chaise.

“Fine,” Jaskier growls in an almost Geralt-like fashion. “But I’m taking all the covers. That way, we can both be fucking miserable.”

***

Yennefer forgot how dull court life can be. At eighteen, she thought that Aedirn’s court would be full of intrigue and excitement. Instead, she spent thirty years dealing with petty scandals and squabbles. In Edinne’s court, she’s reminded of those days in Aedirn, when she was treated as little more than a pretty token of the king’s power. She’s given the honor of spending her days with Oma and her ladies in waiting, who are all mind-numbingly tedious company.

But spending the days pretending she knows anything about needlework and listening to the petty squabbles among the ladies in waiting are vastly superior to the evenings.

The duke and duchess throw an obscene amount of parties, given the turmoil plaguing the region. Yennefer is used to nobles living in excess while their peasants suffer, but knowing that Almisarr was likely responsible for the sacking of most of Nazair and the slaughter of its people makes all the rich food and exquisite wine turn sour in her mouth. Part of Yennefer will always be that little girl living in a pigsty, acutely aware of the cost of every bite she takes.

Jaskier is the darling of the duke’s court and the light of all the parties. Yennefer watches him sing and regale the crowd with stories, prancing about in his brightly colored doublets. He plays the vapid minstrel so well, she sometimes forgets why they’re really here. Many nights, he stays late in the duke’s study, talking and drinking into the wee hours. One night, he doesn’t come back to their room until nearly dawn.

“Don’t fuck the duke,” Yennefer tells him as he clambers onto the chaise. He reeks so strongly of bourbon that she can smell it across the room, but his movements are sure and steady, not the stumbling of a drunk.

Jaskier snorts. “I would never be unfaithful to my lovely—”

“I’m serious, bardling. Do not fuck the duke. You won’t walk away alive.”

The grinning, winking performer vanishes, leaving only Jaskier. “He’s not interested.”

“The duchess is. Don’t fuck her either.”

Jaskier’s shudders. “I like my balls being where they are, thank you. Did you wait up for me?”

“Of course not.” Yennefer flips over, turning her back to him. She doesn’t drift off to sleep for a long time.

***

“How did you even become a spy?” Yennefer asks.

“Yennefer, darling, don’t take this the wrong way, but we’ve known each other for five years now—”

Has it only been five years? It feels longer to Yennefer.

“—And you’ve never given a damn about my life story until now. And you choose _this_ moment to get curious?” Jaskier scowls up at her from the locked drawer he’s currently trying to get open. The duke and duchess are away and Yennefer and Jaskier are taking the opportunity to search the duke’s office.

“You’re taking ages to pick that lock. Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

“I’m a spy. I can pick one measly—”

Yennefer sends a tiny surge of chaos into the heavy oak desk. There’s a click of the lock opening and Jaskier lets out a soft whoop of triumph, then frowns. “You did that, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, let’s call it a team effort.” He busies himself rifling through the papers. “I was recruited by Sigismund Djisktra my last year at Oxenfurt.”

“Why? You’re not exactly…” Yennefer trails off, waving a hand to vaguely indicate Jaskier’s entire being.

The bard huffs a laugh. “I’m a bard who travels all over the Continent. I’m in and out of courts all the time, making me an ideal person to carry messages. Plus, people talk in front of bards. They don’t think we know enough to be dangerous.”

“Does Geralt know about this little hobby of yours?”

Jaskier’s silence is answer enough.

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“Because Geralt loves me,” Jaskier says. “And he would never get a good night’s sleep again if he knew some of the dangerous shit I’ve gotten myself into over the last twenty years. Part of Geralt will always see me as the eighteen year old he met in Posada, as someone who needs to be protected. And that’s fine, just it’s been two decades. I’m not a child anymore.”

“Well aware.”

“For the last time, Yennefer, I do not have crows’ feet.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He makes a rude hand gesture and goes back to rifling through the desk, hands pausing when he gets to a notebook. “Oh, this is interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Yennefer rounds the desk to peer over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, it’s all in code. But I doubt he’s bothering keeping his personal journal in code.”

“Not much help if we can’t crack it.”

“Knowing the duke, it can’t be that complex.” Jaskier pockets the notebook.

Jaskier spends the entirety of the next day copying the contents of the duke’s notebook onto his own parchment before returning it to the desk drawer the next evening..

“It may raise suspicion how quickly you’re burning through parchment,” Yennefer points out.

Jaskier grins at her rakishly. He has a smudge of ink on his nose. “When I’m married to a beauty such as you, who can blame me for being inspired?”

***

Jaskier spends every free moment of the next few weeks with his head bent over the journal, muttering to himself. However, there aren’t many free moments to be had. As they near the midway point of Jaskier’s three-month contract with the duke and duchess, their attempts to convince him to stay for longer become more insistent.

“Dear Annika’s family resides in Aedirn,” she overhears Jaskier telling Almisarr one day. “As charming as your home is, I’m afraid I can’t ask her to reside so far from her mother and sisters. They’re quite close.”

“Your travels with the witcher will take her away from Aedirn, will they not? Or I suppose you were planning on leaving her at home?” There’s something wolfish in Almisarr’s gaze, something that Yennefer doesn’t like.

“I’m afraid my days of following Geralt around are nearing an end.” Jaskier smiles ruefully. “I’m not as young as I used to be and all that walking is murder on my knees.”

“From your stories, it seems like he’ll be lost without you.”

“Geralt will be just fine without me.” And there’s a sadness in his voice that tells Yennefer that this is something true, a rare glimmer of the real Jaskier among the peacocking.

Later, after he comes back to their bedchamber late at night, still reeking of bourbon, Yennefer asks, “Are you truly planning to stop traveling with Geralt?”

Jaskier lets out a long breath. “It’s not so much a plan as an inevitability, Yennefer. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“It’s not a shock to me. It will be a shock to Geralt.”

“I know.” He laughs sadly. “I reminded him that we’ve known each other for over twenty years recently and you should have seen his face. I suppose time is a different thing to those of you who can live for centuries.”

“What’s your plan?”

“See if I can get a teaching position at Oxenfurt, maybe. Geralt’s travels bring him close enough to Oxenfurt that I would probably see him a few times a year.”

“That would make you both miserable.”

“It will, but my knees aren’t what they used to be. I love Geralt and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days at his side, but I can’t do this forever.”

There are ways, Yennefer knows, to extend a human lifespan. Not indefinitely, but by several decades. Maybe even a century, if the human is in good enough health. It’s a rare and finicky kind of magic, which is why it isn't in widespread use, but if the mage casting it is talented enough, it can be highly effective. Yennefer will have to reach out to Triss Merigold; she may be of help.

“When we get back to the north, I can give you a tonic for your knees,” she tells him. “Don’t hang up that lute just yet.”

Even in the dark, she can hear the smile in his voice. “Thank you, Yennefer. That would be lovely.”

***

“Fuck, Yenn, I figured it out.” Yennefer is woken early one morning by Jaskier’s excited voice. She sits up to find him bent over his notebook, grinning down at it with a slightly crazed expression.

“What is it?” She goes to look over his shoulder.

“Names,” Jaskier says hoarsely. He looks so exhausted that she wonders if he slept at all the night before. “And locations. These are the identities of Nilfgaardian spies in Cintra, Sodden, and Brugge.”

“That’s a lot of names.” Yennefer runs her finger over the page.

“Hundreds of them.” Jaskier nods. “It seems Emhyr has been planning his invasion of the Northern Kingdoms for longer than anyone realized. Yenn, do you know what this means?”

“Almisarr and Oma aren’t just friends with the Emperor. They’re his spymasters.” And this charade of hers and Jaskier’s just got all the more dangerous.

“This could turn the tide of the war,” Jaskier says excitedly. “This could stop Nilfgaard in its tracks.”

Yennefer wants to pack their bags now and portal away, get Jaskier as far away from this den of snakes as possible.

“Yenn?” Jaskier asks softly and Yennefer realizes that she still has her finger on the page and is staring down at it intently.

“Be careful,” she tells him.

“I’m always careful, my dear.” Jaskier takes her hand and brushes a kiss across her knuckles. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture and Yennefer feels the touch of his lips all the way down to her toes.

***

Yennefer knows that a group of envoys from the City of the Golden Towers is coming to stay for a week for the duke’s fiftieth birthday. It’s all Oma and Almisarr have been talking about for weeks.

On the day the envoys arrive, Yennefer is stealing a rare moment of solitude in one of the courtyards. It’s the smaller of the two castle courtyards, with only an old oak tree in the center of it. It doesn’t have the exquisite garden, koi pond, and elegantly carved marble benches of the other courtyard, so it’s less frequently used. It’s only of the only place in the castle that Yennefer finds tolerable.

She’s sitting with her back against the oak tree, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her face and the quiet when she hears a voice say, “You’re getting that dress terribly wrinkled.”

Yennefer looks up to see Jaskier walking towards her, wearing a maroon doublet to match her dress. Of all the indignities of being “married” to Jaskier, being forced to wear dresses that match his doublets is the worst. She only tolerates it because it’s exactly the kind of frivolous bullshit Jaskier would pull in an actual marriage. “Good. Then it’s getting exactly what it deserves.”

Jaskier huffs a fond laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Yennefer feels something warm kindle in her chest.

“I expected you to be waiting for the envoys with the duke and duchess,” she says as Jaskier settles on the ground next to her.

“I’m not nearly high ranking enough to greet diplomats.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I told the duke I needed the afternoon to rest my voice.”

“Then by all means, rest your voice.”

He grins. “Are you telling me to shut up, my dear?”

“Don’t fake ignorance, bardling. It doesn’t suit you.”

“And what does suit me?” His eyes look very blue in the sunlight.

“Blessed silence,” Yennefer tells him.

“Oh, now you sound like Geralt.”

“Hm,” Yennefer says dryly and Jaskier cackles.

There’s a rumble of voices and Yennefer looks around to see the Nilfgaardian envoy walking along the covered walkway, being led by Oma, who is arm in arm with a tall woman in a long gray dress.

Fringilla.

Yennefer goes still. Fringilla’s head is turned away from her, but all she has to do is look around and she’ll see Yennefer sitting there, in plain view. The maroon dress and the brown eyes will do nothing to fool Fringilla; she’ll recognize Yennefer as soon as she claps eyes on her. They grew up together, after all.

“Annika?” Jaskier asks. He’s still smiling like a man spending a pleasant moment in the sun with his wife, but his eyes are full of concern.

“I know the sorceress in the gray dress.” Yennefer’s lips barely move as she talks. “We went to Aretuza together. Her name is Fringilla Vigo and she works for Emhyr.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to look. “Fuck. Will she recognize you?”

“It hasn’t been that long since I was at Aretuza, bardling.” Yennefer’s voice comes out sharper than she intends. “Of course she’ll recognize me.”

Fringilla starts to turn her head, probably to admire the courtyard.

There’s no time to think or strategize. Yennefer seizes Jaskier by the front of that awful doublet and hauls him in for a kiss. Jaskier makes a surprised noise; his lips are still under hers for a moment before he reaches up to cup her face in his hands and begins to kiss her back with relish.

Kissing Jaskier is not what Yennefer is expecting. She was expecting him to be showy or one of those men who treats a kiss like a struggle for dominance with tongue. Instead, it’s slow and sweet. He tastes like spiced wine and honeyed bread and when he traces one finger down the side of her neck, she shivers at the touch of his lute-callused fingertips against her skin. She runs her hands over his shoulders and arms, surprised to find firm muscle under fingers. She knew he was no delicate waif, but she didn’t realize he would be quite so solid.

She only remembers why she’s kissing Jaskier when she hears Oma say with an indulgent chuckle, “Newlyweds. Our bard, Jaskier, and his wife, Annika. You can meet them later.”

As soon as the footsteps retreat, Yennefer breaks the kiss and turns her face away, making a show of fixing her hair so Jaskier won’t see her stunned expression. “You’ll need to tell the duke and duchess that I’ve taken ill. The envoys will be here for the next week and I won’t be able to show my face anywhere in the castle.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says, clearing his throat. “I doubt that will draw any suspicion. After all, what is the emperor’s personal mage going to care for one lowly bard?”

But Yennefer fears that Fringilla will find Jaskier very, very interesting.

***

When Jaskier returns to the room late that night, he doesn’t smell of bourbon. He’s unusually quiet as he makes his way to his makeshift bed on the chaise.

Yennefer sits up in bed, still wide awake. She sometimes manages to doze while waiting for Jaskier to return to the room, but not tonight. Not while knowing the most dangerous woman in the Southern Kingdoms is downstairs. She kept a candle lit to keep herself awake, so she can see the tension in Jaskier’s expression.

“How did it go?” she asks.

Jaskier startles at her voice. “The feast was business as usual. You were missed, of course.”

“And after the feast?”

“I had a delightful conversation with the duke and Fringilla Vigo afterwards. They wanted to hear all about my travels with Geralt. I’m sorry to keep you waiting up so late, my dearest Annika, but they kept me talking until my voice was hoarse.” He never calls her “Annika” when they’re alone in their guest chambers. The message is clear: Jaskier no longer feels safe speaking freely in the room, not when an enemy sorceress is close at hand.

“And what did you tell them about?” Yennefer asks brightly.

“Oh, just some of my favorite stories of Geralt’s battles. The striga, the bruxa, the merfolk. You’ve heard them all a thousand times.”

“Who hasn’t?” Yennefer pats the bed next to her. “Come to bed, dearest.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows knit together. “Bed?”

Yennefer nods. “Bed.”

He gathers his nest of blankets from the chaise and comes over to the bed, still looking cautious, as if expecting Yennefer to tell him it’s a joke at any moment. This is purely a practical decision, Yennefer tells herself as Jaskier settles down next to her. With Fringilla in the castle, it makes sense for Jaskier to sleep close enough that she can seize him and portal away if danger arises. It has nothing to do with the pleasant warmth of Jaskier’s body at her back, the comfort of knowing he’s close by. 

She keeps telling herself that until long after Jaskier falls asleep.

And when she wakes up the next morning and finds herself wrapped in his arms, her head tucked under his chin, she’s too comfortable to push him away.

***

Yennefer stays isolated in her guest chambers for two days after the Nilfgaardian envoy’s departure from Edinne and when she emerges, she uses the excuse of convalescing from her recent illness to spend most of her time in the courtyard rather than with Oma and her ladies in waiting. 

One afternoon, Jaskier finds her sitting under the tree and settles down next to her. “I should tell you, the duke asked me today if we’re expecting.”

Yennefer keeps her face carefully neutral. “Because of my recent illness?”

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “He wanted to make sure I knew what a strain a trip back to the Northern Kingdoms would be on a pregnant woman and that I could extend my contract, if necessary. I wanted to tell you, in case the duchess brings it up with you.”

“Congratulations, your seed has accomplished the impossible. Impregnated a woman without a womb whom you’ve never even fucked.”

“Ask any of my former lovers, my dear, I’m very talented.” When she doesn’t return his smile, he sobers. “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I know this is a tricky subject for you.”

With a sigh, Yennefer puts her book down. “It wouldn’t hurt to encourage their assumption. We are newlyweds. We should be fucking like bunnies.”

“If only that were true,” Jaskier says gravely, taking her hand in his. “But I wouldn’t ask you to fake a pregnancy. I won't do anything to cause you pain.”

Yennefer watches as he traces a finger over the onyx and pearl ring. “Not even for Geralt?”

“Especially not for Geralt. He wouldn’t want that.” Jaskier hesitates. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if it were real? If we were actually married?”

“Why would I wonder that?”

Jaskier lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “There’s a lot of free time here. What is there to do but daydream?”

When Yennefer doesn’t answer, he adds, “I’ve never liked large wedding ceremonies.”

She snorts. “You, pass up an excuse to be ostentatious? I don’t believe it.”

“I’m a romantic at heart, my dear.” His lips curl into a small, sad smile. “I always thought if I were to get married, it would be something simple. Maybe a handfasting ceremony, like they do in Skellige. I went to one once. It was the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t think Geralt’s the marrying type,” Yennefer points out.

“He’s not. And at the end of the day, neither am I. But it’s nice to dream sometimes. Have you ever been to a handfasting?”

“No. I have no interest in weddings.”

“They’re delightful. The officiant ties a length of cloth around the couple’s wrists to bind them together.” Jaskier reaches up and tugs the ribbon from Yennefer’s hair, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. He wraps the ribbon loosely around their wrists. “Like this.”

Yennefer’s mouth has gone dry. “Not much of a knot.”

“Well, you try tying a knot with one hand, Yennefer. My favorite part of the handfasting ceremony I went to is that the bride and groom spoke their own vows that they had written. I liked the intimacy of it.”

“What would you say?”

His gaze meets hers. “Something like, ‘I tie myself to you for all my days. Til my dying breath, I will love you, respect you, cherish you. I am yours and you are mine. Always.’”

He’s a better actor than she thought, Yennefer realizes, because he’s looking at her like she lit the sun and she almost believes it.

She wants to believe it, she realizes.

Oh, _fuck._

***

Avoiding her own fake husband is a challenge, but Yennefer is determined. She feigns sleep every night when he comes back to the room, ignoring the warmth of Jaskier in bed next to her. Instead of reading in the courtyard, she goes for walks in the afternoons she has free from Oma’s company. During meals, she finds other people to become embroiled in dull conversations with. As a result, she hardly says a word to Jaskier in the following week.

She doesn’t realize that Jaskier has noticed anything is different until they’re dressing in matching indigo outfits one night and he asks, “Is something amiss, my love?”

“Why would something be amiss?” She doesn’t look at him, focused on putting on her earrings.

“You haven’t been yourself, these past few weeks.”

“And how would you know?” The smile she gives him is as sharp as broken glass. She needs to remind him that this is all a ruse. None of it is real.

Jaskier visibly deflates. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She turns away from him.

***

There are two weeks left in Jaskier’s contract with the Duke and Duchess of Edinne and his employers are becoming more and more determined to convince him to stay. It comes up nearly daily and Yennefer knows with crystal clear certainty that she and Jaskier won’t be allowed to leave without a fight. She keeps her bags packed, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. And despite her desire to be nowhere near Jaskier, she tries to keep an eye on him to the best of her ability.

When Yennefer wakes up one night, the first thing she notices in that the bed next to her is cold and empty. That wouldn’t be a concern, if it weren’t for the man with the sword standing over her.

As the blade arcs towards her, Yennefer throws her hand up. The blade dissolves into smoke, tickling her skin as it hits her. Her attacker makes a surprised noise as Yennefer twists her wrist, snapping his neck. There’s a click and she looks up to see the outline of a man with a crossbow at the foot of the bed. He fires the crossbow and Yennefer sends the bolt flying away from her. It buries itself into the heart of the third man standing by the door. The archer turns to flee and Yennefer crushes his skull with a clench of her fist.

She sits there for a moment, heart racing and hands trembling. She’s not unaccustomed to violence, but it’s been a long time since she had to fight for her life. Taking a deep breath to collect herself, she goes to get dressed.

There are two guards in the hallway. She dispatches them with little effort and slips downstairs to the duke’s study. When she reaches the heavy oak doors of the study, she hears the murmur of voices inside. Placing her hand against the door, she murmurs a spell to let her see and hear everything that’s happening in the study clearly.

Jaskier is sitting in one of the armchairs, the scarlet doublet he wore to dinner gone. His legs and arms are bound to the chair and his chest rises and falls rapidly with his gasping breaths. His nose is bleeding; droplets of red stain his chemise. Yennefer is reminded of the first time she met him, of the blood staining the front of that chemise. She goes cold.

Almisarr aep Clyll sits in the armchair across from Jaskier, one of his legs crossed over his knee in a deliberately casual pose, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He watches his prisoner with his usual jovial smile. “And you’re sure you haven’t been in contact with anyone in Tretogor?”

“Quite sure, yes.” Jaskier’s voice is strained, like he’s spent the night singing. But he didn’t perform tonight at dinner and Yennefer realizes with a surge of horror that he’s been screaming.

“My dear.” Almisarr gestures and Oma aep Clyll slips out of the shadows. Yennefer presses her hand against the door, vibrating with fury, as Oma produces a stiletto knife, tracing it along Jaskier’s jaw. Jaskier shudders.

“My wife has so been hoping to get her hands on you since this all began.” Almisarr chuckles. “It would be enough to make a lesser man jealous.”

“I’m afraid I must decline.” Jaskier’s voice quavers too badly to convey the humor he’s trying for. “I’m a happily married man, you see.”

“Even if that were the case, I’m afraid that’s no longer true, Jaskier. You’re now a widower.”

Jaskier’s face goes horribly blank. Yennefer has never seen that expression on his face. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should have known we wouldn’t be able to allow Yennefer of Vengerberg to live. She was far too dangerous.”

“How did you know?” Jaskier asks, voice as empty as his expression.

“We suspected when there were never any signs of marital activities on your sheets. Nor any traces of her monthly courses.” Almisarr’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “But our suspicions were confirmed when Fringilla Vigo saw her in your mind and recognized her.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. “Killing her was a mistake.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because now I won’t rest until I destroy you.”

Almisarr lets out a booming laugh and Oma smirks.

“Do you think your witcher will come for you?” Almisarr asks.

“No.” Jaskier’s eyes are still closed. “If you think you can use Geralt to get to Princess Cirilla, you’re mistaken. He has no intention of ever claiming his child surprise.”

“He might change his mind, with the right motivation.”

“He won’t bring a child to you, not even for me.”

“So we should just slit your throat then?”

“Yes,” Jaskier whispers. Yennefer can’t smell emotions, not like Geralt, but she can feel the terror and hopelessness radiating off the bard.

“Not yet,” Oma murmurs, stroking her fingers over Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ve been waiting too long for a chance to play with you.”

Jaskier’s jaw trembles, but he says nothing.

Yennefer has seen enough. The door splinters as she blasts it open. Oma aep Clyll whirls to face her. She has Jaskier’s blood on her hands, Yennefer notices. The duchess rushes at her, knife raised, and Yennefer clenches her hand. Oma screams as her arm breaks and the knife falls to the ground.

“Next time, send more assassins,” Yennefer growls and breaks the duchess’s neck.

She turns to find Almisarr standing behind Jaskier’s chair. He has one hand fisted in Jaskier’s hair, jerking back his head to expose his throat. In his other hand, he holds a knife with the tip pressed against Jaskier’s pulse point. Blood trickles down the side of Jaskier’s neck.

“Hands at your sides and don’t come any closer, bitch.” The duke’s face is twisted with fear, grief, and anger. “Or I kill him.”

Yennefer can’t look away from Jaskier, who is watching her with open relief. "You can die one of two ways, your grace,” she tells him. “Quick and painless, or choking on your own entrails. Your choice.”

The duke bares his teeth. “You’re not going to make a move when I have a blade to his throat.”

“Do you really think so?” Yennefer drags her gaze away from Jaskier to meet Almisarr’s eyes. “You said so yourself, it was a ruse of a marriage. This man is nothing to me.”

“Then why haven’t you already attacked?” When she doesn’t reply, the duke jerks his head towards the desk. “There are dimeritium cuffs in the top drawer. Put them on, or the bard dies.”

Yennefer doesn’t move. If she puts on those dimeritium cuffs, she’ll be helpless.

The duke draws a shallow line across Jaskier’s throat. The bard gasps in pain and Yennefer can’t stop the horrified noise she makes.

Almisarr chuckles. “He means nothing to you, does he? I was married to Oma for twenty-five years. She was very good at inflicting pain. While I never reached her level of mastery, she was an excellent teacher.”

“Love stories like that just bring a tear to my eye,” Jaskier croaks, hissing when Almisarr presses the flat side of the blade against the cut on his throat.

“You took away the person I love, Yennefer,” Almisarr says. “What makes you think I won’t be happy to take away yours? Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Yennefer should protest that she doesn’t love Jaskier, that his life is nothing to her, but the words stick in her throat.

“Get the cuffs,” the duke snaps.

Yennefer steps over the duchess’s crumpled form on her way to the desk. When she opens the top drawer, she finds the cuffs sitting on top of a stack of parchment. She glances back at Jaskier, taking in the frightened blue eyes and the blood running down his throat. She can’t let him die. She needs to get him safely back to Geralt.

As she reaches for the cuffs, Jaskier cries out, “Yennefer, don’t! Just portal away. It’s okay.”

“Shut up,” Almisarr snarls.

“Tell Geralt that I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s voice cracks on his lover’s name. “And that I love him.”

“I told you—”

Yennefer swallows. “Don’t be stupid, Jaskier.”

“I love both of you so much, Yenn,” Jaskier says. “And if I’m going to die, I need to know that you and Geralt are safe first. So please—”

“Enough!” Almisarr shouts and Jaskier grimaces. “Put on the cuffs, you bitch, or—”

Those are the last words Almisarr aep Clyll ever says before his head explodes.

“Well,” Jaskier says after a long moment of silence. “I think I have brain matter on me. You couldn’t have killed him in a less gruesome manner? Not that I’m complaining, but—”

Yennefer closes the space between them in two strides and presses her lips to his. It’s a hungry, desperate kiss, and when she pulls away, she says, “I love you too. I don’t know why, but I do.”

He smiles far too brightly for someone who’s tied to a chair, covered in his own blood and another man’s viscera. “Perhaps all the sunshine down here has warped our brains.”

“That must be it.” She retrieves the duke’s fallen knife and begins to saw through the bindings on his wrists. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly. They had barely begun their interrogation when you came to the rescue.”

“Couldn’t let you die. Geralt would pine so.”

“So would you.”

“Hardly, bardling. Now come on, we need to get out of here before anyone notices all the corpses.”

“Hold on, we need to go back to the room! I’d face Emhyr himself before I abandon my poor lute.”

Yennefer does not know why she’s so desperately in love with this man. She’ll probably spend the rest of her life trying to figure that out. But as they leave the duke and duchess’s bloodied bodies behind, she knows she’ll be ensuring that he’s with her every step of the way.

***

In the early springs there is a rash of executions among the militaries and nobilities of Cintra, Sodden, and Brugge as scores of Nilfgaardian spies are discovered and brought to justice. With new knowledge of Nilfgaard’s plans for an invasion of Cintra and Sodden, the Northern Kingdoms renew their efforts to prepare for the eventuality of a war with the empire.

“You think we’ll be able to hold the Nilfgaardians back?” Jaskier asks Yennefer one night.

Yennefer brushes her lips over the thin white scar on the bard’s throat. “I think that discussing politics is terrible pillowtalk. I thought you were an expert lover.”

“I’ll give you an expert lover.” He pulls her in for a kiss.

He's been feeling quite energetic ever since their trip to see Triss Merigold in Vizima, and Jaskier and Yennefer are both enjoying the effects.

The bard is less annoying when she keeps his mouth occupied, Yennefer is learning.

***

They both go to wait for Geralt in Ard Carraigh at the tavern where Jaskier meets him every spring. When the door flies open and Geralt comes striding in, Yennefer feels Jaskier nearly vibrate with excitement next to her.

“Geralt!” he calls, waving his arms in a frankly embarrassing fashion.

Yennefer sighs.

When Geralt turns to see them sitting together, his brows knit together in confusion. Slowly, he makes his way towards them. Yennefer’s gaze flicks over him. He looks well-fed and rested after his winter at Kaer Morhen. As soon as he reaches their table, Jaskier leaps to his feet and embraces him. Geralt’s nostrils flare and Yennefer is sure he can smell her on Jaskier. She and the bard had a busy morning together.

“Melitele’s tits, you have no idea how good it is to see you, Geralt.” Jaskier steps back to smile up at his lover. “We’ve had quite the winter.”

“We?” Geralt’s thumb traces over the scar on Jaskier’s throat and he looks over at Yennefer with a questioning expression.

“I didn’t do that.” Yennefer takes a long sip of her ale. “Not that I wasn’t tempted at least once a day.”

“Oh, darling, we know how tempted you are.” Jaskier throws her a roguish wink.

Geralt looks bewildered and a little worried. “You two are friends now?”

“Friends?” Jaskier takes Yennefer’s hand and holds it up so Geralt can see the pearl and onyx ring. Even though their fake marriage is over, she still wears it. What can she say? She likes pretty things. “Yennefer and I got married.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, then at Yennefer, then back at Jaskier. “You did what.”

Yennefer could clarify that it wasn’t a real marriage, but the gobsmacked expression on their witcher’s face is too much fun. “We also toppled a duchy in Nazair.”

“And quite possibly ruined Nilfgaard’s plans to expand north.”

“And Jaskier will most likely live another eighty years, unless he gets stabbed by a jealous husband.”

“Huh,” Geralt says.

“And Yennefer and I have been having a lot of truly stupendous sex,” Jaskier finishes proudly.

Yennefer shrugs. “Eh, it’s fine.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops and he sputters in outrage. “It’s _fine?_ ”

Geralt groans and looks around for a barmaid. “Fuck, I'm going to need an ale.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. There's a chance this could inspire a longer, more involved fic at some point (I had to cut out so much yearning to make this stay under the Quick Fic word limit.)


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